Princess Lothiriel dismounted her mare at the circle of grave barrows in the middle of Pelennor Fields. The massive mounds around her housed the dead of Minas Tirith, Belfalas, and every other army that had held fast here against the fell armies of Mordor. In one of the mounds, the captain of her father's guard lay lifeless and cold.
The dark mist ate at her warmth despite her thick cloak, as the wraiths in her mind lapped at the anger firing her tired body upright. She had arrived from Dol Amroth late the night before, but had not been able to sleep after stiffly denying her father and brothers' welcoming embraces. Instead her angry pacing occupied the night hours before she finally slipped out of the city on horseback before dawn.
The last few months had been difficult for the Dol Amroth princess. While the Haradrim and Urukhai had mustered their forces against Osgiliath and Minas Tirith, the corsairs had stepped up their raids against the ports in the South before abruptly retreating. The young Belfalas leader had successfully defended their strategic grain stores with the few soldiers left her and she had lost no one to the siege itself, but that was cold comfort against the thousands buried here.
The stoic maiden surveyed the dirt tombs with a frozen heart, the mist a grey blanket on forever dreamless rest. So many had died here – so many that could have stayed in the south to keep safe. Instead her father and brothers had mustered them to their deaths here and at the Black Gates.
She sighed, her cold rage against her family was not why she had left the safety of the fortified city so early this morning. The princess had promised her people back home to sing their dead a requiem: men and women who had lost brothers, fathers, sons, and sweethearts.
The black-haired singer contemplated the mist-shrouded barrows again, opening her mouth to begin her offering. Thousands of previously living, the lullabies of mothers huddled together in the stone courtyard – an andante start in a minor key. The rising sun silhouetted the barrows in the mist, men hunched over campfires in battle-ready armor – fifth chords on a rising major scale. Light breaks through the mist, a great eagle swooping down to pace galloping cavalry – she let the melody simply rise from her diaphragm and power to the farthest corners of the plains. A horrifying thud of a battering ram on a wooden gate, her mounted brothers breaking against hordes of orcs - her anger and fear broke through, turning her voice harsh and shrill in her throat.
She halted before the blackness could consume her, the chill mantle of apathy settling damp upon her thoughts once more as the remembered laments of her people echoed in her head. Mechanically she called for her borrowed mare and cantered back through the lightening ground fog towards Minas Tirith. The rhythmic thudding hoofbeats hijacked her heartbeat and muffled all else.
At breakfast the youngest royal mentioned her excursion to the graves, only to have her father and brothers lecture her on the folly of riding outside the gates alone. Her rage drowned out stories of orc bands roaming the plains – how dare they admonish her activity after their maneuvers in the recent war. Instead of spiritedly debating their double standards of safety as was her habit, she icily turned the discussion to disposition of the grain stores. Involved as he was in the administration of the refugee city, her father was easy enough to distract and her brothers followed suit.
Later that afternoon with her father, she recounted it all again to her cousin Faramir, the new Steward of Gondor, and King Elessar, a man whose solemn grey eyes were like looking in a mirror. The subsequent discussion showed the princess the critical role her people's army had played in foiling Sauron and gave her a glimpse of a bleak future averted. She felt a momentary thrill of pride in providing her stern liege with a solution to the current food shortage, another effect of Mordor's strangulation of Gondor and its allies. The king invited her to dinner that night, but discovering her brothers would also attend, she gracefully refused, citing fatigue from her recent journey and ignoring her lingering resentment of their bravado.
That evening, Aunt Ivriniel's murmured marriage plans for her niece drove the princess from their simple supper to an early bed. Lothiriel tossed and turned until the raucous return of her brothers an hour before dawn woke her fully. When the house settled again, she rose and snuck out to the stables. A sleepy groom saddled yesterday's horse and absentmindedly she let it plod its own path down the streets and out the gates. Lost in the featureless fog of her thoughts, she found herself back at the barrows when the mare finally stopped moving forward.
Dismounting, Lothiriel thought back to yesterday's performance, regretting its dismal ending with her newfound appreciation for the importance of the dead's sacrifice. The men lying here did not deserve her anger for saving Gondor. Skipping a warm up introduction she launched directly into the swooping third movement, the power of the song briefly lifting her heart.
Too soon the unwelcome anger and horror and helplessness arrowed through her, unbidden frustrated tears clogging her throat. She fought against the misery until a hand on her shoulder startled her. Disoriented, she fell against a man's hard chest and surrendered to her sobs. His shoulder was warm support under her cheek and the strength of his embrace cracked her open to feel everything she had suppressed for so long.
As her sobs wound down, she began to notice details about her comforter. Despite the cold wet mist surrounding them, he smelled like peace – warm leather, clover hay, the faintest musk of salty skin and horse. And he felt like safety - easily holding up her leaning weight, his muscled arms encircling but not shackling her. The singer could see through her tears his long pale hair pillowing her cheek against the coarser linen shirt he wore – he was one of the Riders of Rohan who had swept in to turn the tide of defense. She finally pushed away and, after a hurried look into thoughtful hazel eyes, fled to find her horse.
Returning to the mountain sanctuary the solitary maiden felt his presence, solid at her back. This was a man who would be able to defend himself and others – a trait she had admired in her father's late captain, what she had expected from her family, and what they had tried to provide in rushing off to war. As the Falas and Eorlingas drew closer to the city, a feeling of serenity enveloped her, a security blanket invisibly thrown over her shoulders by the powerful guard behind her. She slowed down after entering winding streets, but the Rider never completely closed the gap to her side, seemingly content to follow. He continued escorting her to her aunt's shared stables, but when she ran back to the street after leaving her horse with the groom, he was gone. She pledged to return to the barrows for a third time in the hope she might encounter him again.
At breakfast her relationship with her brothers was much improved as she, their only sister, teased them about their late night and jokingly poked fun at their escapades. Even her aunt's arch hints about the princes' dinner invitation to the recent king of Rohan did not discomfit her. Perhaps their guest would impart the name of her silent sentinel.
She took a nap that afternoon and woke late, just in time to complete basic ablutions before dinner. Her aunt frowned at her simple toilette, but the continued calm from the morning's emotional storm allowed her to return a serene smile. So when Aunt Ivriniel welcomed a familiar watchful Rohir as Eomer King, it was eager anticipation that rose in her breast as she caught his eye.
A/N: This is basically Lothiriel's version of events in "The Song". It always interests me how folks can focus their emotions on the things they know and downplay all of the things they do not know about a situation. I am sympathetic as I do it too of course, but my day-job is a lot of [sometimes unsuccessful] attempts to ensure that everyone is cognizant of all facts they need to make the right decisions in their own projects.
Thanks to GloryBee for the push to write this side of the story. I have a ton more ideas, but if anyone has a scenario s/he would like me to explore, please drop me a note. Thanks in advance!